


With All Their Quantity of Love

by tronjolras



Series: The Autumnal Series [2]
Category: Regency Love (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Family Drama, Kid Fic, Long lost siblings, Post-Canon, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:45:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tronjolras/pseuds/tronjolras
Summary: On the sixth anniversary of your marriage to Mr. Curtis, you both hope for a quiet day (which are much more infrequent with a four year old son and newborn daughter added to your family). However, the sudden appearance of your estranged brother throws your day--and possibly your life--into chaos.“Actually,” Demetrius muses, “there was something that I could not help but think of when I saw your reaction to your brother: ‘I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up their sum,’” he recites from Hamlet. “I would bet he feels the same about you, that is the way of siblings, I believe.”





	With All Their Quantity of Love

Even though he’s being very careful, Demetrius wakes you when he gets out of bed. You groan and press your fists to your eyes. Every little thing wakes you now and you feel like you’ll never be truly relaxed again. 

 

Your mother told you something similar when Demi was born, as expected, the April after your first anniversary.  She told you that you will never have a peaceful moment again. At first, holding your tiny Demetrius Christopher Curtis in your arms for the first time, you don’t believe her. Now you do. 

 

“I’m sorry, my darling,” Demetrius sighs. He leans over to kiss your forehead.

 

You deflate and wait a moment before uncovering your eyes. 

 

He kisses you fully and the scratch of his yet-to-be-shaven chin is familiar, is a treasure that you can appreciate even now. 

 

“Let me take the terror this morning,” he offers, referring to Demi, whose four and a half years have made him an energetic toddler prone to running wild and leaving destruction in his wake. You felt that you knew you would give birth to a son in the months before, and so decided very early that he would be named after your father, but his first name would be his own father’s and so he was called Demetrius Christopher before he was even born. When he was born, you could tell how much he took after you husband in his features, his coloring, that you took to calling him Demi for short, like a smaller version of your Demetrius. However, his temperament is quite the opposite of your husband’s. Demi does not know the value of quietness and cannot yet grasp the import of books, your husband’s two foremost interests. “He’ll be out of the house and you can sleep.”

 

You shake your head, even as you press your cheek into your pillow. “Cece will be up soon.” 

 

Cecilia Lavinia Curtis is only three months old. You are only a few weeks out of your confinement, but Cecilia’s difficult birth has left your more fragile than the first one. You are, however, devoted to your daughter, whose hair color and nose match yours, but whose eyes are so much like your husband’s. You could not be happier, and sometimes you even feel it. 

 

“Then I promise you a quiet day with Cece and I’ll take Demi to Lampton,” he decides. From Bradley House, Lampton Hall is a short walk. You came to Bradley House to be close to your mother, now the mistress of Birkenbridge having accepted Colonel Watson’s proposal before your second anniversary. Now your residence in Bradley House has extended longer than it ever has before during your marriage. While Mr. Curtis may never be described as a social being, returning to Darlington has forced him to reunite with old acquaintances that fell by the wayside in your four years of familial bliss raising your son in Yorkshire. 

 

One appreciation Demi inherited from you both is your love of nature, though perhaps not yet, your regard for it. You or Demetrius or Nanny if you are unable, try to take him out through the forests and fields of your childhood, and he never fails to return caked in mud and dirt, his black hair streaked brown and green with errant leaves of grass. 

 

“It will be your gift to me,” you grumble.

 

He laughs and places a hand on your shoulder, warm and comforting. “How dare you think I have no plans for you, Emilia!”

 

“Did you not give me a child on our last anniversary?” you cry.

 

Demetrius does not laugh and at first you are afraid he is disappointed in your vulgarity, but opening your eyes, you see a sentimental smile on his lips. You know how terrified he was of losing two loves. Neither of you can live without ghosts, it seems.

 

He takes to petting your hair. “You must get as much rest as possible, my love. Your full recovery is my foremost concern.”

 

“Thank you, Demetrius.”

 

You do get a few more minutes of sleep in before Hetty comes in with your breakfast and Nanny with Cece. Her hair has grown enough that it is beginning to curl and her eyes are big and bright. You feed her before dressing. In spite of your husband’s concern, you are expecting a visitor: Ellie Ashcroft. 

 

Being in Darlington, you were one of the first people to hear the news of Ellie’s engagement. It was arranged by her brother, but you do not doubt the affection between her and Mr. Woods. You do not know the Woods family well, though they have always resided in hertfordshire and you maintained a pleasant acquaintance to the man’s cousin, Miss Woods, who lived in town. Ellie has always come to you when she required the advice or opinion of an older woman, even though you are no longer as close with Mr. Ashcroft as you have been, you still consider Ellie as a sister, so much so that she is Cecilia's godmother. You meet her for tea in the drawing room. 

 

“Emmy!’ she cries when she enters. “Richard won’t be able to come to the wedding!”

 

With the crisis announced, you invite her to sit on the divan next to you and she pulls out a letter and begins to explain. 

 

“They’re making him go to Liverpool for the winter and they won’t let him come home!”

 

You nod in understanding. Ellie had fought to have a December wedding, with Richard’s assurances that he would be able to attend. You feel for Ellie. Even though you were never as close to your long lost brother Christopher as Ellie is with Richard, you felt his absence keenly at your wedding. You had hoped, maybe, he would appear at the last minute to give you away at the altar, but instead, you held tight to Mr. Worthington’s arm and he offered you a handkerchief to brush your tears away before walking down the aisle. At least Ellie would have Mr. Ashcroft, as you remind her kindly. 

 

She nods, but sniffles. “I wanted him there so much.”

 

“I know, dear, but maybe you and Mr. Woods can visit Richard in Liverpool during your wedding tour.” This placates her and then you begin to help her plan her wedding tour. They plan to stay in England, meeting an old friend of Mr. Woods’ in Manchester and Ellie’s great aunt in Sheffield.

 

Her excitement and anticipation of being married is infectious and soon you find yourself feeling very nostalgic about your own wedding and the wedding tour you spent in Scotland with you husband six years before. 

 

~~~~

 

Mr. Curtis enjoys walking through the woods in which he spent the early days of his engagement walking with Emilia. Walking with his son is not quite so peaceful, but he shows his father things he never noticed before like fox holes and fairy rings that he warns his father, very gravely, to stay away from because Mother told him so. 

 

Demetrius had no patience for fairy tales until Emilia gave him a reason to believe in them, and his son gave him a reason to tell them. 

 

“Come Demi, we mustn’t dawdle in the woods. Mr. and Mrs. Simmons are expecting us.” Demetrius takes Demi by the hand and guides him back to the path. Somehow, the child has gotten a large patch of dirt on the knee of his suit and some dust on his nose. Demetrius thinks of sacrificing his handkerchief and scrubbing Demi off before letting him into Mrs. Simmon’s drawing room. Not to mention Nanny’s disappointment. Emilia will think it darling though, their son dragging half the woods back in the house. She will recite the poetry of the Romantics and it will make Demetrius relax finally, as her voice in poetry always does. Then later, she would chuckle at his concern, recite, “Tut, tut, fear boys with bugs,” and then laugh outright, in bright tones. 

 

“I want to see Jos!” Demi demands.

 

“We’re going to go see Jos,” Demetrius says.

 

“But I want to play now!” he cries, running ahead.

 

“Slow down,” Demetrius calls, but it does not take long for his long legs and eager strides to overtake the child. “You can play with Jos when we get there and only if Mrs. Simmons allows you to,” he says sternly, “so you needn’t make such a racket. Here, Demi.” Demetrius stops him by putting his hands on his shoulders, they stand still for a moment in the forest. “Listen.” 

 

They hear a couple of voices of people coming from town and the sounds of a picnic in the nearest clearing. They have seen a few people on the path already, young people who believe in brisk morning walks through nature and merchants bringing their wares in carts through the woods to market. 

 

It’s not exactly the sound of nature, but it’s close enough to interest the boy. “What’m I supposed t’hear?” he asks, his face screwed up in concentration that looks almost painful. 

 

Demetrius thinks for a moment. “You know, I’m not quite sure.”

 

Demetrius has them stop once more when they reach a fork in the path. One road leads to the house where the Vales once lived, the other to Lampton. He picks Demi up and points down the path to the left. “Look there, son, that is where your mother grew up. I bought Lampton a full year before I met her.  I cannot believe that we were only a twenty minute’s walk away for so long. Demi looks up at him with his own face and Demetrius feels a fierce sense of pride well up in his chest. “But we’re running late,” he says, letting Demi climb down, “and Mrs. Simmons has sweets for you, I’m sure.”

 

Just a moment later, and Demetrius hears a man’s voice call behind them, “Sir, excuse me, sir, do you know this area?”

 

Turning, Demetrius sees a man in his late thirties standing at the fork in the road. His speech is that of a gentleman’s but his beard is a touch unruly and his clothing simple and possibly foreign, but smart. He carries a portmanteau, but it is not large or battered, disproving Demetrius’s immediate impression that he was a transient. Demetrius holds Demi’s hand tightly nevertheless. 

 

“Fairly well, sir,” Demetrius responds. 

 

“I am looking for the Vale family, they once lived down that way, but it seems the house has been sold.”

 

“Yes, they did once,” Demetrius says carefully, still not trusting the stranger.

 

“I am trying to find Mrs. Helena Vale, do you know where she is?”

 

A part of Demetrius he did not realize was active relaxed when the man said he was looking for Emilia’s mother, a part of him that was afraid he was a suitor returning after having conquered some feat and expecting Emilia to have been waiting like an ancient myth. “Mrs. Vale is now the mistress of Birkenbridge and the wife of Colonel Watson.”

 

The man exhaled like her had been holding his breath. He smiled “And her daughter? Where is she? Please, sir, can you tell me where Emilia is?”

 

Demetrius hesitated. He took Demi up in his arms again, despite the child’s wriggling. “As a matter of fact, Emilia Vale is my wife.”

 

He let out a bark of laughter and braced himself against the tree. “My god! What luck you’ve blessed me with.”

 

Demetrius frowned. The man looked like he had just come ashore after years at sea. “Sir, may I ask what business you have with my wife?”

 

“Business? Sir, I am her brother! I am Christopher Vale.” 

 

~~~~

 

You and Ellie take a turn around the garden, the long summer has not yet given way to autumn. The sun is still hot and the leaves haven’t turned yet. Your garden at Bradley House is not as grand as the one at Penridge because you usually only use Bradley House for business and brief stays. You cannot wait to return and bring your daughter to Penridge, but Bradley House is not without its charms. 

 

The walk fatigues you more than you care to admit, but Ellie has the delicacy to suggest you sit on the terrace and Cecilia is brought out to you there. Ellie puts on a show of fussing over you almost as much as your husband, but you shoo her away and try to distract her again by talking about Mr. Woods. 

 

“He is really a very nice man,” she sighs. 

 

“I don’t think your brother would let you marry anyone who wasn’t,” you say, cradling Cece in your arms. 

 

“And he’s smart.”

 

“That’s good, it means he knows how to keep himself occupied.”

 

Ellie giggles, but then develops a worried expression. “I don’t know. I only know about drawing and fashion and he’d probably find it all frivolous. I’m not… witty like you Emmy. You always know what to say.”

 

You blush under the praise. “Oh, don’t pay any attention to me. I just talk too much, ask Mr. Curtis.”

 

Ellie laughs. 

 

You take her hand. “You’ll be wonderful, I promise. Mr. Woods is lucky to have you.” 

 

She is beaming brilliantly now. “Thank you, Emmy. I forgot to wish you a happy anniversary! I’m sorry, I was so upset when I came in!”

 

You laugh. “That is quite alright. And thank you, dear. I look forward to wishing you your own happy anniversary!”

 

“Do you have any plans for today?”

 

“No, but Mr. Curtis has--not that you would know anything about them, would you, Miss Ashcroft?”

 

Ellie snorts, nearly upsetting the baby in your arms. “That was five years ago!” she protests. “Really Emmy, I--”

 

“Mrs. Curtis!” You hear Demetrius’ voice faintly from the front of the house. He is early home.  Your husband is not a man to shout, and do you detect some distress in his tone? Your mind immediately goes to Demi and a great panic seizes you. You look at Ellie and quickly hand her the baby before hurrying to the door. Passing the stairs, you see Demetrius handing off Demi to Nanny, looking a little confused but otherwise not bloody and part of your fear is abated, and then in the foyer you see… 

 

“Christopher!” 

 

“Emilia!” he laughs and drops his portmanteau, holding his arms out wide. The only thing you can think is how much he looks like your father. 

 

“Why are you here?” your voice shakes and your fists tighten until your nails dig into your palms. 

 

His expression falls and his arms lower.  “Emmy, I’ve come home.”

 

You look desperately at your husband who seems bewildered, but seeing your expression, schools his own and sets it in a stern scowl. He takes a step toward you, no doubt to offer you support, but the appearance of your brother after twenty years has upset you too much. 

 

You turn back to your brother and summon enough wherewithal to deliver: “This is not your home!” You turn to flee to the staircase. No one stops you, but you do see that Ellie has drifted in, holding Cece in her arms. It makes you stop for a moment, but then you are ashamed and decide to flee anyway. 

 

Behind you your hear your husband and your brother calling your name. Cecilia starts to scream.

 

You feel like you are ten years old again, running up to your bedroom while your father and brother shout at each other below while your mother is sobbing for them to stop. 

 

When you open the door to your bedroom, you are startled to find Hetty returning the laundry to its chest, but she takes one look at you and leaves quickly, closing the door behind her. You fall onto your bed and finally let yourself cry. 

 

You are down to sniffling before you hear a soft knock on the door. The door creaks open, “Emilia,” your husband’s voice says softly.

 

You keep your head buried in your arms. “I’m so sorry,” you say, your voice shaky. 

 

“I sent Miss Ashcroft home…”

 

“I will call on them to apologize tomorrow.”

 

The other side of the bed dips and Demetrius’ voice comes from just a few feet away. “I feel I should dispatch a footman to Birkenbridge.”

 

“I don’t know if we can take two such spectacles today.” You rest your head on your forearms and look at Demetrius sideways. 

 

A small smile dances around his lips and he puts his hand on your arm. “I apologize. I did not know the appearance of your brother would cause you such distress.” 

 

You sigh deeply and find that you are very tired, “Neither did I.” 

 

Demetrius swings his feet up on the bed and you move to lay your head in his lap. He plays with your hair like he did that morning. 

 

“He left us when I was very young,” you explain. 

 

“I know.” 

 

You look up in askance and your husband looks uncomfortable. “Mr. Worthington… spoke to me before I proposed. He gave me some details about your family’s history--to prepare me for any unpleasant talk that might have arisen,” he says with great delicacy. 

 

You press your lips together. “You’ve taken how long to tell me this? When I am not so emotionally compromised, we will discuss this.”

 

Demetrius laughs and continues to stroke your hair which has calmed you down exceptionally. 

 

“He left me, Demetrius.”

 

“I know.” His hand stills and he looks down at you  with a sympathetic, but firm expression. “But I also know that we are two people so familiar with loss that the thought of something coming back scares you.” 

 

“I don’t like it when you’re smarter about these things than me,” you mutter into his waistcoat. 

 

He surprises you with another rumble of laughter. “Age must count for something. When I chose to let love back in my heart, Emilia, it was not easy.” He sits you up and holds your face to look at him. “I will never regret that I opened my heart, but it was a difficult choice. Olivia made her choice years before, but her death reminded me of this feeling and the pain.”

 

“Thank you, Demetrius, but I don’t know if I am strong enough to make that choice,” you say, voice hitching as another bout of sobs overcome you.

 

Taking your shoulders, he draws you up so you are face to face. With the crook of his forefinger, he smudges away your tears. You have married a kind man.

 

“Be weak then,” he says, holding your cheek so you cannot look away from him. “Tomorrow, you will still have me, you will have Demi and Cecilia, all of our friends will remain—and you will not be diminished in the eyes of any of us. But if you turn away your brother now, he may never return. Be angry at him, he may even deserve it, but if you go downstairs to the study and talk to him today, you can postpone your decision until tomorrow.”

 

It takes several more minutes of your husband’s coddling before you feel able to go downstairs. 

 

Hughes has put Christopher in the library to avoid any of the other servants’ prying eyes. He watches the stranger like a shrewd hawk. Since your flight to Yorkshire years and years ago, your husband’s butler has never ceased to be your ally and advocate. Many times, when you and Mr. Curtis are at one of your stubborn impasses, Mr. Hughes acts surreptitiously as mediator and on more than one occasion, when he feels your husband is being particularly unfair, he will offer his opinion in a way your husband will always be persuaded. He does not like Christopher, perhaps because he is a stranger and dressed like a poor man, or probably because of your scene at his arrival. 

 

“Madame, shall I stay?” he asks under his breath at the library door as Christopher watches you intently.

 

You glance at your husband who waits further in the room, whose apprehension is beginning to show, and you nod to Hughes.  “Thank you, sir.”

 

Christopher stands when you enter. He is taller than you remember, but that’s only because he was twenty and you were ten the last time you saw him. He really does look remarkably like your father which causes a deep discomfort in you. His expression is reminiscent of a kicked puppy dog, you wish to alleviate the pain of your fellow man, but you do not know if your forgiveness, the balm to heal the wound,  is something you can give. 

 

‘We should sit,” you say. You sit in a chair so that your husband cannot sit next to you on the sofa opposite Christopher, touching you and reminding you of his presence and his advice. You have allies, but you must do this alone

 

You three sit and Hughes stands at the door. Someone has set up a small tea service and you see that Christopher is halfway through a cup of tea. You’d rather be halfway through a bottle of madeira. 

 

“Thank you for coming down, Emmy,” he says quietly. 

 

“Papa looked for you, did you know that?” you say. You thought you would not be able to look at Christopher as you spoke, but you find that instead, you cannot look away. You want to see his every reaction as you tell him this. “The morning after you left, he went to London and he looked for a week. And then he went to France, Scotland, Ireland for you, for years! Christopher, did you know that?”

 

Christopher becomes still, but you see his throat work under his beard and his eyes glisten with tears. “No. I did not know that.”

 

“He did. And we spent all that time waiting for you to come home, but you cast us aside like we were nothing!”

 

“You do not know what happened that night.”

 

“There is nothing that you and Father could have said that justifies that!”

 

“Emilia, please, “ Demetrius’ soft voice jolts you out of your anger. He looks as if he is in pain, like he is begging. You do not know if he has ever seen you so distraught before.

 

“She’s right,” Christopher says to him. “I have regretted walking out that night every day since I left, but before, I was too young and proud to admit my fault in this and by the time I had realized my guilt, I had built a life that I could not leave. I did, ten years ago, contact Lady Rossington, but I asked for our aunt’s discretion. She told me of Father’s death.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m so sorry Emilia, I cannot apologize enough, and if Mother were here, I would beg for her forgiveness as well.”

 

“And if Father were here?”

 

“That’s not fair, Emmy,” Christopher says darkly. 

 

To your surprise, you laugh a cruel and mirthless laugh. “No, I cannot blame you for Father’s death, but I can blame you for not coming to mourn for your father. Lady Rossington was at my wedding, where were you? And your own mother’s wedding?” You begin to sob in earnest again. “There is a child upstairs christened in your name! I don’t know how to make you understand what you have done to us!” You feel a hand on your shoulder and look up to see your husband, looking grim. You have appreciated his silence, but you still wish he was on the other side of the room, or the other side of the wall so he would not have to see you like this. But you know he is concerned. 

 

You turn into the touch and Christopher stands as well. 

 

“Please excuse Emilia’s distress,” Demetrius says quietly, “she has been ill recently.”

 

“Ill?” his voice breaks. “Oh, Emmy, I had no idea…” 

 

“It’s nothing!” you snap. You don’t know if it was meant to be directed at Christopher or your husband, though you still cling to Demetrius’s hand so that your knuckles are white. You let Demetrius blotch your face dry with his handkerchief and for a moment, he looks you in the eye and you are reminded of his wise words from only minutes before. You should resolve to be civil, or risk losing Christopher forever. 

 

You press a cool hand to your blotchy red cheeks and look up at Christopher who has come to stand closer to your chair. “My daughter,” you begin to explain. “She was too early. She’s perfectly healthy, thank God, but it was difficult and I am still recovering.” You pat your husband’s hand. “And Demetrius has been as worried as a mother hen.”

 

More tears leak from your brother’s eyes. “Oh, Emmy,” he repeats. 

 

“I’m sorry I said all of those horrible things just now!” you cry. 

 

“I deserve it.”

 

“Kit, I missed you so much!” you break from your husband’s grasp and jump up from the chair, flinging yourself into your brother’s arms. 

 

Christopher is quick to reciprocate your embrace and you hold him for a long time. “I came back and all I couldn’t even imagine you all grown up, Emmy.”

 

“Was I ten years old to you all this time?” you tease through your still abundant tears.

 

“Yes. And did you ever imagine me as a man of forty.” You step back and examine each other at arm’s length.

 

You shake your head. “Not at all.” 

 

He takes a step back, dropping your hands to study you fully. “Look at you now, Emmy. You’re a proper lady! You have children!”

 

“And you!” You don’t know what to say. “Kit you must tell me everything! Please! I want to know everything.” You pull him into your arms again and are just beginning to believe that Christopher is home at last. 

 

After you have both calmed down. You take Christopher into the sunroom, not willing to waste the sunny day, and order tea and food, as soon as he admitted he had not eaten at all that day. It took some assurances, but you finally convince Demetrius and Hughes that you want to be alone with your brother. Hughes tried to insist he would serve tea, but you shoo him away. “My brother has come home, I will serve him.”

 

“It think it’s best we wait until tomorrow to bring you to Mama,” you say. 

 

Christopher laughs nervously. “Yes, I agree.”

 

You recognize his look of trepidation at the prospect of having to break big news to your mother as one you have worn  many times before. 

 

“I will be right by your side,” you assure him, pouring him another cup of tea.

 

“I don’t want you to come if you are ill,” he says. 

 

“Nonsense. Don’t pay any mind to what Demetrius says. He likes to worry.”

 

“He--he is a good man?” Christopher asks nervously.

 

“The very best,” You answer without hesitation. You give a brief summation of his philanthropic endeavors and are confused when Christopher shakes his head. 

 

“I meant, does he treat you well? Do you love him?”

 

Your expression softens. “Yes. I do.” 

 

“I was surprised when he said he was your husband and that the child was yours.”

 

You swallow an realize the question he is not asking. “He may be older than is typical--”

 

“I didn’t mean--”

 

“He was alone for a long time. He had convinced himself he would die and leave everything to Mr. Simmons, the headmaster of Lampton, but Mr. Worthington dragged him back into society and we met at Castoridge Court… I don’t care about his age half as much as he does, because he has lived so very little until now.”

 

“So you must really love him,” Christopher says, impressed.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good,”  he sits back in the rattan bench. “I cannot believe mother married Colonel Watson! Our aunt told me, but… ” he laughs and it is the first laugh of his you have heard, not on the verge of tears, for twenty years. 

 

“Do you remember him?”

 

“Of course! Father was always jealous of his shooting. And I remember whenever he brought the regiment to Birkenbridge.”

 

“One of his soldiers wanted to marry me.” 

 

“Father would have never allowed it!” Christopher says. 

 

“Oh certainly not!” you agree. “It was a strange year. It was almost ten years ago,” you say not believing it yourself, “it was when we came out of mourning… There was a soldier named Mr. Graham who liked my embroidery.” Saying it aloud makes you laugh. “And then Mr. Ashcroft, who is Demi’s godfather now! And do you remember poor Thomas Digby?”

 

“My god! I never imagined my sister would be the resident heartbreaker of Darlington. Before I left, you were besotted with the Winslow boy and had had row with one of your little friends about who he would marry.” 

 

“Phoebe won out in the end and they live in London now.” You spend a few more minutes detailing the events of that year, ending in Mr. Curtis’ proposal.  But when you finish, Christopher is silent, he looks like he is looking very far away. 

 

“When are you going to tell me what happened to you?” you ask, jolting him out of his thoughts. 

 

“I don’t think there’s all that much to say,” he says humbly. 

 

“Nonsense! Where did you go?”

 

“I feel bad to talk about it, knowing how much pain I caused you all.”

 

You reach over and touch his shoulder. “I want to know.”

 

He shrugged. “I roamed around France and the German states working as a translator or tutor where I could. I went to Valladolid in Spain and taught in exchange for a degree. Afterward, I traveled with a man through Spain and his native Morocco. I lived with him in Marrakech for almost fifteen years, though we still travelled all around the Mediterranean: Rome, Constantinople, Cairo, and Algiers”

 

“What did you do?” you cannot suppress to shock in your voice. You are not certain you could place the city on a map and now you find your brother has lived there. 

 

“I taught,” he says as if it were obvious. “Many families wanted their children to be taught European languages and I could teach, so I did.”

 

“And your companion, what does he do?”

 

Christopher laughs again, but it’s darker this time. When he sees your confusion, he explains, “It’s strange that Fadl should be considered my companion, when really I was his. He was a true academic, a great scientific mind to the Muslims, and I was his odd dhimmi friend who taught their children French and Latin.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yes, it must sound bizarre to you.”

 

“Not at all!” you lie. 

 

“That’s alright. I could not believe I was living such a life myself. It was so different than anything that could have happened here.” He is caught once again looking far away, but he does not look sad or tired. He is even smiling, you can tell by his still present dimples, underneath his beard. 

 

You ask a question you already know the answer to, “You were happy?”

 

He nods, and though he is still smiling, he is crying again. “Oh yes. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I was the happiest I ever was or ever could be here.”

 

“Then why did you come back?” 

 

He sets down his teacup and once again, sits up straight. “Fadl has died.”

 

“I’m sorry.” You offer your hand again. You cannot help but indulge in the foolish thought: too many people die. 

 

He takes your hand and squeezes it gratefully. “It was only a few months ago,” he says quietly, “and I did not see any reason in continuing to live abroad without him.”

 

“So you came home?”

 

He bobs his head again. “Marrakech was just too foreign without my friend, and, as I said before, I have long ago realized how much I must have hurt you all, but I had too many obligations there, or at least I told myself. When Father died, I had considered returning, but I felt too guilty, and again justified my absence with my obligations, to Fadl, my students, and our friends. But now, there is a child-like part of me that just wants to see Mother again. To be near my little sister, who has made so much of her life. It was selfish of me to leave and stay away, I know,  but I hope—”

 

“I forgive you,” you interrupt. “Oh Kit, I do forgive you.” You embrace him again. You want to put this whole business behind you and you are a little ashamed that it took you so long to accept your brother’s return as that of a prodigal son. “Where have you been staying?” you asked. 

 

“I spent last night at an inn in town,” he says, after you let go. 

 

“Well you’re staying here tonight, and as long as you require. You might even come back to Penridge with Mr. Curtis and I, after I am declared recovered. We sold the house, but I am sure there is some inheritance left you are entitled to.”

 

“I don’t want any of it,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest. 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Father would not have wanted me to be his heir. He would rather it all went to you and Mother.”

 

You shake your head. “Christopher… “

 

He takes your hand. “Please, Emilia. You still do not know the matter of the argument that night. You do not know what he said to me. I loved our father and I mourned for him all the way from Marrakech, but I know he would not have me carry on the Vale legacy. He would have you.”

 

“Then what will you do?”

 

“I will do what I have done before, teach languages and translate texts. I can teach all the schoolboy languages, French, German, Spanish, Italian if I must, and Arabic, of course. Fadl taught me enough of other Mediterranean languages to get by, but I doubt there will be much of a demand for those in England.”

 

From the doorway you hear the soft clearing of a throat and turn to see Mr. Hughes waiting patiently. You smile briefly and apologetically at Christopher and nod to the butler. “Yes, Hughes?”

 

“Mr. Ashcroft has come and is rather insistent on seeing you directly, Madame. He and Miss Ashcroft are in the front room.”

 

You remember that Ellie was witness to your horrid behavior earlier and blush scarlet. You should have realized she would tell her brother and he would come to try and save you. He probably thinks he is returning the favor from so many years ago when you acted as the much needed mediator between himself and Richard. “Oh no,” is all you manage to say.

 

“Shall I send him away, Madame?” You’ve always had the impression that Mr. Hughes did not particularly like Mr. Ashcroft; you assume it comes from a place of staunch loyalty to Mr. Curtis after discovering Mr. Ashcroft was his master’s competitor for your hand.

 

You wave your hand. “No, no. I shall see him.”

 

You stand and Christopher stands to, obviously bewildered. “Is everything all right?” he asks with deep uncertainty. 

 

“Of course. Mr. Ashcroft has just had a heroic impulse that must be entertained, it is nothing.”

 

“This is the man that is a godfather to one of your children?” Christopher asks rhetorically.

 

“Yes, now don’t be alarmed if he throws the gauntlet down, or even attacks you on sight,” you say breezily as you leave the sunroom with Christopher in tow, “he’s really very sweet, but rather protective over me.”

 

“This same man is the one who wanted to marry you?” Christopher asks, lowering his voice as you go into the hall.

 

“We’re quite past that now.” You plaster on a bright smile as you enter the sitting room. 

 

Ellie sees you first. She is sitting on the window seat, looking pale and nervous. Her shoulders are hunched and her eyes threaten tears. She looks like she did when you first met, when her illness often overcame her. Her furtive gaze snaps to her brother, who is pacing, his heavy brow knit into a scowl. You do not wait for him to notice you. “Mr. Ashcroft!” you cry cheerfully.

 

He stops suddenly and turn to see you. He looks surprised, as if he were not standing in your own home. “Mrs. Curtis!” He sees your brother hovering behind you and straightens, his eyes settle on Christopher with an intimidatingly critical gaze.

 

“I should have expected you after causing such a scene,” you go to Ellie and sit next to her on the window seat, but she refuses to look at you, “and frightening your sister,” you finish. Ellie blanches and you take her hands resting in her lap. “I am sorry to have caused you any distress.”

 

Mr. Ashcroft looks like he is about to launch into a hastily practiced speech. “Mrs. Curtis, I came here to—“

 

“Forgive me, Mr. Ashcroft if I prevent you from embarrassing yourself by making any grand oration, but I will say that I appreciate your concern and I do believe it was justly founded. And now I am happy you came for an entirely new reason.” You squeeze Ellie’s hands and she finally looks up at you as you stand. You motion to Christopher, who has not passed the threshold, to enter the room. He swallows nervously and steps into the room. He bows to Mr. Ashcroft and Ellie.

 

Through the open door, you see that Demetrius has come downstairs, Hughes at his heels. They both wear expressions of concern, but you smile at them wordlessly and nod. You turn back to Mr. Ashcroft. “My dear Mr. Ashcroft and Ellie, allow me to finally introduce my brother, Mr. Christopher Vale.”

 

You don’t wait to see the Ashcrofts’ reactions, and instead go to Christopher and take his hand. “Christopher, it is my pleasure to introduce you to two of my dearest friends, Mr. Marcus Ashcroft and Miss Eleanor Ashcroft.”

 

You steal a glance over your shoulder and see Demetrius, leaning against the door frame, smiling in his small, subtle way. You can see the pride in his eyes and it makes you blush.

 

Brave Ellie is the first to step forward, she bobs into a shy curtsy. “It is a pleasure to be introduced to you sir,” Ellie says quietly.

 

Christopher bows again. “And you, Miss.”

 

Mr. Ashcroft nods. “Sir, I am likewise glad to be introduced,” he says awkwardly.

 

Christopher inclines his head in response.

 

“Mr. Ashcroft, won’t you and your sister stay for dinner?” You say with geniality no longer forced.

 

“We could not impose,” Mr. Ashcroft hastens to say. “Um… I mean… we are not dressed for such an occasion.” 

 

Ellie stifles a snort. 

 

“Nonsense,” Demetrius says, announcing himself. The Ashcrofts and Christopher turn to see Demetrius push himself off the the door frame and walk into the room. “We insist.”

 

You are glad that your husband has joined you. He has always been your more stoic half and you know you have had to rely on him heavily today. You leave Christopher’s side to go to him. He rests his hand on your waist, a more intimate gesture than he would usually display before guests, but you suspect he is feeling a little competitive with Mr. Ashcroft who saw fit to come to your rescue. You lean into him, just enough to say “I love you” without words.

 

“I agree,” you declare. “Old family, old friends and all of that. Sit down now and I will find Mrs. Elkins to tell her of our expanded party.” You leave the room quickly, but not before nudging Demetrius with your shoulder affectionately. You stop out of view of the door and take a moment to relax.

 

Demetrius has followed you and you are happy that he has received your subliminal signal. “I see you have made your choice,” he says, lightly.

 

“He is my brother who has practically returned from the grave. Perhaps I was spooked by the ghost at first, but I have made my peace and he has made his. I am sorry for Mr. Ashcroft barging in, by the way. I hope the episode did not disturb you.” While you were with Christopher alone, Demetrius said he would take care of some business at his desk. You lean against the wall and Demetrius stands before you.

 

“There was nothing to interrupt, I admit I kept being distracted by my concern for you.” He leans in so that you two stand closely together.

 

“Pesky thing that,” you breathe.

 

Demetrius smiles. 

 

“My guess is this is not what you had planned for our anniversary?” You say. You know you shouldn’t stay long away, abandoning your brother and your guests in what must undoubtedly be an awkward encounter, but you wish, very much like your first anniversary, just to be alone with your husband. 

 

“Decidedly not,” he answers. You two have hovered toward a small alcove in the hall behind the staircase that shields you from any prying eyes. His hands find your waist again and he pulls you in for a kiss. 

 

You keep your hands on his chest, slipping under the front panels of his cutaway coat and feeling the silk threaded embroidery of his waistcoat under your palms. 

 

The kiss does not last long, but you stay together, hating the thought of moving. “Tell me what you planned,”’ you request quietly, resting your head on his shoulder. 

 

“I was going to deposit Demi with the Simmonses for the rest of the day, and I was going to send Cecelia with Nanny to your mother, so that I could have you all to myself. Mrs. Elkins herself oversaw the assembly of a private picnic lunch. I would have persuaded you to take a late lunch with me in the park. And then, the next morning, the children would have been returned to us, but only after you had a full night, and perhaps a full morning of sleep, Mrs. Curtis.”

 

“Oh my. Now I am truly sorry indeed.” You kiss him again. “You should get back to everyone before they combust with sheer social discomfort,” you tell him, knowing your stolen moment is coming to an end. 

 

He nods. “At your service, madame.” 

 

One more chaste kiss and he goes back to the sitting room and you seek out the nearest made to have her tell Mrs. Elkins that there will be three more for dinner than planned, and to pass along your apologies.

 

When you return to your guests, you don’t know why you left your husband in charge of hospitality when Christopher is doing so well on his own. “I knew Caroline Woods well before I left. I am glad to hear she is doing well and that her cousin is such an amiable gentleman.”

 

“She has been a great help in the planning. At least she saves me from bothering Mrs. Curtis too much,” Ellie says brightly. You suspect your endorsement of your brother was the only prompting Ellie needed to trust him completely.

 

“None of that, dear,” you say, announcing yourself. “You never bother me. In fact it has been quite an honor to know that you respect my opinion so.  But I must beg you again not to put every aspect of your wedding before judgement. By the time Mr. Curtis’ and my own day came, I felt like the event was hardly ours at all.”

 

“Mother?” Christopher guesses. 

 

You laugh. “Yes, and whatever allies she could find.”  You sit next to Ellie, still at the window seat and Christopher sits on a chair facing you. Demetrius has taken the chair at the small writing desk and Mr. Ashcroft refuses, still, to sit. But he has always been an old fashioned man when it comes to manners even at casual unannounced dinner parties. 

 

“Are you married, sir?” Christopher asks Mr. Ashcroft, catching the party off guard.

 

“Um, no--”

 

“My brother has been entirely devoted to my and our brother’s care after our parents died,” Ellie says graciously. 

 

This brought a smile to Christopher’s face. “As he should have been. Emilia told me you were a noble man.”

 

“And you sir?” Mr. Ashcroft asks. “I meant, are you married?”

 

“I never had the time,” he replies easily. 

 

“Christopher assisted an academic in Marrakech,” you say with swelling pride. You can imagine telling everyone back at Penridge, people who do not know about his disappearance and only see a beloved brother returned home. “He’s traveled all over and speaks more languages than I can name, I’m sure.”

 

Christopher is blushing under his beard and Demetrius and Mr. Ashcroft laugh. Like that, the tension is broken. 

 

Dinner is convivial as anything. Ellie is on the edge of being a frantic bride-to-be, babbling about this and that and happy to share her high opinion of her brother in what has become a very fraternal conversation. Demetrius enjoys conversation with Christopher, finding him an intellectual equal, which surprises you as you don’t remember Christopher having a fondness for reading, but his years with Fadl al Hasan must have made a scholar out of him. Who surprises you the most, is Mr. Ashcroft. He softens over the course of the evening and is as active in conversation with Christopher as Demetrius is. And all throughout, you cannot suppress your pride and your love for your family, friends and all. 

 

The party disperses early. 

 

Mr. Ashcroft privately apologizes for trespassing on your hospitality and you grant forgiveness without hesitation. He is a noble man, sometimes too much so for his own good. You embrace Ellie and invite her to tea again tomorrow.

 

Christopher claims fatigue from his travels and you show him to a vacant bedroom. He wishes you and Demetrius a warm goodnight and is sure to express his gratitude many times. You part by giving him a kiss on the cheek. 

 

Mr. Curtis and you adjourn to your bedroom, arm in arm. You had told Hetty to retire early tonight last week, you no longer cared what the request implied, and in fact, you were grateful for now your conference with your husband would remain uninterrupted. “Well,” he says with a low whistle. “That was a more exciting day than I could have ever supplied.” 

 

You laugh. You sit at your vanity while Demetrius goes into his dressing room, but leaves the door open. From your vanity, you can see through and for a moment, you watch his deft fingers undo his cravat and pull it through his collar. For most of the day, you and he had been concerned about your own state of mind, but now, you are struck by concern for him. He looks tired. You hope this business with Christopher will resolve quickly so that you can plan a magnificent day for Demetrius, who deserves it deeply. As you pull pins loose from your hair, you begin to plan something similar to the day he had planned for you and your anniversary. 

 

“Perhaps we needed a little excitement, things were getting too quiet around here. Domestic bliss can only last so long.” You snort at your own joke and wrestle with a stubborn pin that has tangled.

 

In the mirror, you see Demetrius come to the door of his dressing room in his shirt and drawers. “You didn’t mean that do you?” he asks, trying to play off his nervousness with humor. 

 

You yank the pin free, taking with it a few strands of hair. You scowl, but your expression turns soft when you look over your shoulder and see him and his sad, soft eyes. “Of course I didn’t, dear.” 

 

He nods once and disappears again into his dressing room. He returns to the bedroom in his nightshirt and dressing gown. He sits on the end of the bed and waits for you. The last hairpin falls onto the table top of the vanity and you stand up to unlace your dress. He sees you fumbling with the  laces and stands behind you to help. “I must once again apologize for my behavior today. Such a scene was unacceptable in the presence of the staff and guests… and our children.” You swallow thickly, dreading how Demi must have felt seeing his Mama sob and throw a fit. 

 

Demetrius pushes your hair over your shoulder, out of the way of the laces and takes a moment to stoop and place a kiss at the base of your neck. “Let’s not speak of it again.”

 

You let out a deep breath you did not realize you were holding. It is not quite absolution, but it is close enough. He pulls the back panels of your dress apart and you slip it off your shoulders. You step out of it and pick it up and return it to your wardrobe. Your fichu is easy to untie and you fold it neatly while Demetrius has resumed his post at the foot of the bed. 

 

“Actually,” he muses, “there was something that I could not help but think of when I saw your reaction to your brother: ‘I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up their sum,’” he recites from Hamlet. “I would bet he feels the same about you, that is the way of siblings, I believe.”

 

You pause at your corset. “Before I forget, I had an idea about Christopher. He’s going to stay in England, and I do want him to be near, but I doubt he likes to trespass on our hospitality and I know he will not claim any inheritance of our father.”

 

“Really?”

 

You nod. “He wants to teach.” 

 

“Well,” Demetrius scratches his chin and thinks. “I admit I do admire any man giving up the life of a gentleman for academic pursuits, but where?”

 

“Aha!” You tap your nose. “That is what I wondered myself. Ellie Ashcroft is very nearly married. I have not spoken to Marcus about it recently, but I do believe he is still keen on creating a school.” 

 

Demetrius nods thoughtfully. “Simmons told me three days ago that Ashcroft called and inquired about a headmaster.”

 

“Well,” you turn your attention back to unhooking the front of your corset. “I doubt Christopher is quite ready to administrate a school, but I think he would like to teach at Thornleigh.” Demetrius, seeing that you will require it soon, lays your nightgown on the bed next to him. You nod in thanks. “And I thought,” you say, discarding your corset and pulling your chemise over your head, “maybe you could suggest Mr. Simmons hire Christopher for a year or so until Ashcroft has Thornleigh up and running.”

 

Demetrius chuckles as he stands holding your nightgown over your head. “The idea of being an anonymous benefactor by now is a complete fantasy, isn’t it?”

 

Your head emerges from the snowy white fabric with a grin. “It’s your fault for marrying such an altruistic woman,” you say, closing the gap between you and kissing him deeply.

 

He laughs again, holding your waist and placing small kisses on your neck and shoulder. “Believe me, my dear Emilia, it is a mistake I would happily make again.”


End file.
